Looking Back
by dhawthorne
Summary: A series of oneshots from different Law & Order characters looking back on painful times.  Inspired by prompts from the LJ community Seven Spells, as well as mccoylover, who pursuaded me to write more L&O fanfic.  Please R&R!
1. Yet Again: Lennie Briscoe

Yet Again

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DISCLAIMER: All characters belong to Dick Wolf.

Author's Note: This story is dedicated to mccoylover, who inspired me to write more Law & Order fanfiction. Thanks!

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Yet again, Lennie Briscoe let his daughter Cathy walk away from him, leaving him feeling guilty about his poor parenting skills.

Yet again, he is awakened in the middle of the night by a phone call, summoning him to the scene of a homicide.

Yet again, Lennie sees the broken body of someone he loves.

Yet again, he cries at a funeral, goes home alone, and tries (sometimes successfully) to resist the siren song of alcohol, promising to hake him forget his sorrows.

Yet again, he is ironically reminded that history repeats itself; and yet again, there is no comfort, only pain and sorrow, in that lone, empty thought.


	2. For My Man: Diana Hawthorne

For My Man

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DISCLAIMER: See first chapter.

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What was on your mind when we won the Dillard case and you received your promotion? When you took me to Ireland as a victory prize? When you told me it was over? When you replaced me with Claire Kincaid?

How did you feel when you learned we put the wrong man in jail? When you pressed charges against me? When Claire exposed me during her cross-examination? When you saw the woman who used to share your bed on trial?

Did you see what I did? Did you look behind the withheld evidence for the reason? No, of course you didn't. You never were one to look deeper in anything relating to me.

I did it for you – for your love, admiration, gratitude…

I did it for you. For my man…


	3. The Month of May: Anita Van Buren

The Month of May

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DISCLAIMER: See first chapter.

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So many joyous things happen in May – my marriage, the births of my two sons, the beginning of three months with my family…

So many sad things happen as well – Claire Kincaid's death, Mike Logan's transfer to Staten Island, Ben Stone's resignation and departure, the death of Rey Curtis's wife Debra, Lennie Briscoe's daughter Cathy's death…

So many people find May to be the brightest month in the year. But to me, Lennie, Rey, Jack, Ben, and Mike, it is the cruellest one as well…

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A/N: I know that Lennie's daughter didn't die in May, and I'm not aware of when Rey's wife died, so forgive me the artistic license, please! Thanks! 


	4. Conference: Adam Schiff

Conference

Adam Schiff stepped up to the podium situated on a platform above the masses of reporters, waiting to ask for his opinion. Mr. Schiff was an old man, tired of giving conferences, meddling in politics, playing the puppet master. He wished for the idealism of his youth, which is long since lost in the jaded memories of convictions, acquittals, and plea bargains.

"Mr. Schiff! Isn't it true you wrote an amicus brief against the death penalty while you were in law school?"

"That was a long time ago," he says, wearily. It was. It seems almost another lifetime ago.

"Did you change your mind regarding the death penalty?"

_I don't really have an opinion anymore, _Adam thinks, _I know I should_.

"The people changed theirs. Thank you."

He follows what the people want, what politics demand. He may be the puppet master, but even he has to follow the rules.


	5. Prophetic: Claire Kincaid

Prophetic

"What I've seen today will be with me for the rest of my life," she'd said to Mac, her stepfather, after witnessing an execution.

Yes, the man had been guilty, and no, he hadn't shown any remorse, even at the end, but Claire still didn't believe in killing him.

She meant what she'd said to Mac.

She didn't mean it to be prophetic.

As she sees the car rushing towards her, knowing that she can't turn the car to avoid the inevitable crash, her mind is not filled with the fear of death, prayers, false hope of her survival, her family, or Jack.

She thinks, "To the last syllable of recorded time, Mickey Scott's execution will haunt me."

She thinks, "I didn't mean it to be prophetic."


	6. Frayed: Rey Curtis

Frayed

I'm Catholic. I believe in God and try to follow the Ten Commandments. But yesterday, I didn't.

I watched a man die, and didn't do anything to stop it. I helped put him to death.

That's not all.

I cheated on my wife. I slept with a girl in graduate school.

I lied to her about my job – but I did tell her about my wife.

She didn't care that I was married, and at that moment, neither did I.

This morning, I'm trying to avoid Debra's questioning about where I went last night. I'm helping my girls get ready for school.

Olivia hands me a ribbon to tie in her hair. The ends are fraying.

Just like my marriage. Just like my faith.

Just like my life.


	7. Never Mind: Jack McCoy

Never Mind

He'd been arguing with Claire ever since she'd brought up the subject of attending Mickey Scott's execution. She wanted to go because she felt responsible for helping to convict him. Never mind the fact that she didn't believe in the death penalty.

He didn't want to go – he hadn't seen the point. Why drive six hours to the prison and back to see a man die? He'd be satisfied with hearing the results. Never mind the fact that he did believe in the death penalty.

He'd given her the day off, and jumped out of the car into mid-town traffic. Never mind the fact they'd had tons of work.

He hadn't known where she'd gone – after finishing up with plea bargains, he'd paged her – but she hadn't called him back. Never mind the fact that he'd been leaving messages every hour.

He'd gone to a bar, and spilled out his childhood, revealing more as he'd drunk more scotch. Never mind the fact that he'd had lunch with Liz Olivet, and denied the fact that he needed to release his emotions, talk about something other than work.

He never had been able to confide in women who he wasn't in a relationship with. Never mind the fact that he'd told a complete stranger more about his childhood than he'd ever told Claire, the one he'd been closest to.

He finally leaves the bar, after paging Claire one last time, saying, "to hell with her." The empty ringing of her phone, then the answering machine picking up, had become his drinking song. Never mind the fact that he hadn't talked to her.

He is woken up in the middle of the night by the phone ringing. Thinking it is Claire, _finally_ calling him back, it takes him a few minutes to place the man calling. Never mind the fact the caller tells Jack right away that it is Detective Curtis, Lennie's partner.

He gets a cab to the hospital, his head swimming, due to not only the booze he's consumed tonight, but the sheer impossibility of the situation. Reaching the hospital, he waits hours to see Claire. He apologises to her, tells her he loves her, tells her he's sorry. Never mind the fact that she's brain dead, and can't hear him.

He was the one who was supposed to die first, not her. He can't believe she's dead. Never mind the fact that the whine of the flat-lining heart monitor confirms it, just like it confirmed Mickey Scott's death earlier that day.

He's dead without her. Never mind the fact that he's still alive.


	8. Doctor: Liz Olivet

Doctor

Doctor Elizabeth Olivet, M.D., police psychologist and private practitioner dealing mainly with young children, sat quietly in the waiting room of her gynaecologist, a small camera disguised as a brooch pinned to her sensible cardigan. Crossing her knees nervously, she looked around the room: at the television perpetually playing the news, the outdated magazines from six months ago, the receptionist filing her nails as the phone rang. What struck Liz the most was the people – the women who saw her doctor or one of the other five who shared this office space. Not a single man was present – only the doctors were male. In the room where women come and go, she learned, some left with a heavy secret – rape.

The door next to the receptionist's window opened.

"Elizabeth Olivet?" the nurse called out.

Liz gathered up her things and smoothed down her skirt.

_Here goes everything._

She left the room, becoming one of the women who go.


	9. Collision: Mike Logan

Collision

In grammar school, the nuns taught him about inertia – the power behind a moving object. He applied that theory in real life – but not in the way the nuns would have wanted.

When his fist collided with the nose of the man who sexually assaulted him.

When his fist collided with a homophobic politician's face.

There were other times, too, when he didn't apply it, but saw it applied.

When Claire's car was hit by a drunk driver.

When the Staten Island ferry collided with a dead body.

Through his observations, Mike learned that the effect of impact on stationary objects was much greater than two moving ones.


	10. Acceptable: Paul Robinette

Acceptable

In my tenure at the D.A.'s office, I've learned that there are five shades of white that are acceptable.

One – the colour of 95 of the people who work at One Hogan Place; the colour of 1 of the people prosecuted by those who work at One Hogan Place.

Two – the stripes on the American flag, six of them; as well as the stars, fifty of them.

Three – the artificial lighting produced by glaring fluorescent bulbs in the interrogation rooms down at the Precinct.

Four – the sterility of the morgue – the crypt, examining room, and identification room.

And Five – the crisp paper which is used for depositions, drafts of opening statements, subpoenas – basically everything we do at the D.A.'s office.

I wasn't any of those shades of white.

I am acceptable – no, exceptional – nonetheless.


	11. Society Pages: Jamie Ross

Society Pages

Ever since marrying Neal Gorton, I've read about myself in the society pages. When we divorced, it took a full three months for there to be a brief respite of a day when I wasn't mentioned in the newspapers.

It's always bothered me to be written up in those pages, as though I was nothing more than a vapid bimbo, instead of a mother and successful A.D.A. Especially when most of what's printed about me is false.

But one thing's for sure – I don't mind the papers writing up exactly how I kicked Neal Gorton's ass on this case.


	12. Incision: Liz Rodgers

Incision

She'd always been good at science – especially biology – and she'd wanted to help people. So after graduating from college, she'd gone to med school – and found that she was really very good at diagnosing illness, performing surgeries, and dealing with long hours. Of course, being a med student, she didn't operate on live patients – and she wouldn't until she began her residency.

On her first day as an intern at New York University Hospital, she scrubbed in for an appendectomy. Making the incision was the most difficult thing she'd ever done, and she was overcome by nausea. She'd rushed from the operating theatre, knowing that she'd never be a surgeon.

Betty Rodgers became a medical examiner instead. She could put her surgical skills to work on the cold hands, cold feet, cold bodies of the cadavers. Making an incision was only ever difficult when she cut into someone she knew.


	13. Practically Perfect: Serena Southerlyn

Practically Perfect

I've always wished to live in the world of Mary Poppins – the supercalifragilisticexpialidocious world of Mary Poppins, created by P.L. Travers, the perfect world I wish to inhabit. Most people would say that I have a perfect life: I'm attractive (blonde hair, blue eyes, slim figure), I have a good job, I live in New York City. But I'm not happy, nor am I perfect.

Sometimes, I think that if I still believed in God, I could attain my own perfect world. There's always been a comfort in believing in a higher being. Around the time I stopped believing in God was when my "perfect world" became synonymous with the universe of Mary Poppins. The Admiral's cannon is a warning bell, alerting me to soon-to-be-lost opportunities; Jane and Michael personify my absent idealism and naïveté. The chalk drawings created by Bert soften the cruel world; Mrs. Banks fights for justice – and attains it. Mary, of course, is "practically perfect in every way;" the Bank Managers are the C.E.O.'s and politicians. The Bird Lady – oh, the Bird Lady – feeds the birds. The white birds fluttering around St. Paul's Cathedral stand for hope, and the Bird Lady represents the small remaining portion of mankind that cares for others.


	14. Poker Face: Ed Green

Poker Face

He's never had a good poker face, except when he's at work. It's odd, really, because he's provoked to show his emotions much more by the criminals he arrests than by his card-playing buddies. Even when his control slips and he beats a suspect up, his face remains impassive.

When he holds the pasteboard cards with their red design on their backs, his thoughts are clear as day, painted on his face by the discerning brush of his emotions. He never has a poker face when it matters.


	15. Jack Kerouac: Ben Stone

Jack Kerouac

He sits at the wooden desk he's had for twenty-five years, in the office he's occupied for the past fifteen. He's always been a stable man, the most upheaval in his life being his divorce ten years ago. And now, everything is changed – his office is almost empty, his resignation letter is signed, sealed, and ready to be delivered to Adam Schiff. His office, which has become his refuge in the ten years since he's been married, is now empty – except for his desk and his autographed copy of _On The Road_.

He traces his fingers over the scrawled signature of his idol, Jack Kerouac, and recalls the day when he envied him. While Ben's never resented his job, or the long hours it requires, he's always wanted something more. He's never had the time to be the highway kind.

Now, though, he has all the time in the world. In that sense, Anne Madsen's death is a blessing, an awakening of his senses to the monotony and routine of his life.

Quitting his job leaves him time to explore, emulate his idol, and be the highway kind.


	16. Identity: Sally Bell

Identity

At the D.A.'s office, her identity was not Sally Bell, prosecutor, but rather Sally Bell: Jack McCoy's assistant, lover, and stabilising presence in his life. She was led to believe that she was instrumental to him – in his job, in his bed, in his life. But three days before Christmas, she unlocked the door to his office, and her identity shattered.

She watched Jack hold his new lover's arms high above her head as he pressed himself against her, backing them both against the wall in his office. The sound of the heavy oak door slamming startled Diana, Jack's new lover, and she gasped at the intruder in the fragile world she and Jack had created in his office. Jack whipped his head around, one hand grasping the unzipped waistband of his khakis (_the ones,_ Sally thought sardonically, _that she had bought for him_), the other hand pulling his half-clothed lover against his chest, shielding both of their dishevelled forms from Sally's piercing glare.

Sally quit the D.A.'s office that day, and eventually became the co-chair of the Public Defender's office. And, in time, she realised that Jack's betrayal was instrumental in defining her own identity – and for that, she was grateful.


	17. Asphyxiation: Alexandra Borgia

Asphyxiation

How many times has she read about victims who have died from asphyxiation? She's always felt that it was the worst way to die – the most drawn-out, helpless way. _At least with AIDS or cancer there are medicines and treatments to go through,_ she thinks for the thousandth time, _there's nothing to do to prevent your suffocation._

The duct tape over her mouth, around her wrists, and across her knees is not going to come off – she's already tried. The dull silver tape that faintly reflects the little light that is in the tiled room reminds her that she is now a victim, as well – and the A.D.A. who will take her place will read her file just as she has read the files of countless other victims of crime. It was these files that led her to be imprisoned in this room – all because she was seeking justice.

Staring once again at the tiles lining every flat surface, she notices for the first time the distinctive texture of them. She's felt tiles like these before…

_Her first case – suing the founder of the Kentile Company on behalf of an elderly man named Al Fredrickson. He'd been a superintendent in Hoboken, New Jersey, during the Great Depression, and he'd always used Kentile tiles for everything. He was seventy-two when he was diagnosed with lung cancer – from the asbestos, the doctors told him. He'd hired her, and she'd sued Andrew Kennedy, the current owner of Kentile, for three million dollars on Al's behalf. Al had two daughters; Susie and Didi, and a wife, Olivia. He'd died the day after they'd won the case. Before he passed away, however, he called her in for one last meeting. "I don't care about the money," Al said, "although my girls will need it once I'm gone. I just want other people to know the dangers…"_

The white door swung open inwards, the glaring light from the hallway blinding her, pulling her out of her memories. As her vision cleared, she realised that it wasn't the police, but the men who kidnapped her. Her heart sunk – she was never going to be rescued. She was hoisted up onto a man's shoulder, and he carried her like a sack of flour. Her stomach pressing into his shoulder cut off even more of the slight flow of oxygen that snuck through the duct tape. She had one last, desperate thought: _the rooms have a hint of asbestos_ – the blackness she associated with lack of oxygen clouded her vision as she tried to hold on, only vaguely aware of being placed in the trunk of a car – _but the carpeted floor of a car trunk yields a more painful death_. The hatchback door closed off the last view she'd ever see of the outdoors, and she knew that she was gone.


End file.
